The Law of Finders Keepers

by Sheila Turnage

  he’ll lock up your heart for keeps.

  “Oh my,” Miss Retzyl said in the tone she used the day the Exum boys brought a flat highway frog for science.

  “Poem, check. Flowers, check,” Dale murmured as Tinks fled. “Starr and Miss Retzyl are halfway down the aisle.”

  Before I could reply, Skeeter clicked the intercom on. “Attention Desperados,” she said. “You have a meeting with the Church Floor Committee after school.”

  “Good luck with that,” Attila said, smirking.

  “Our luck’s changed, Mo,” Dale said. “I can feel it in your bones.”

  But if we’d gone lucky, we didn’t stay lucky long.

  After school the chair of the Floor Committee—mean, beige Mrs. Simpson—tapped her foot against the church floor and shook her head. “No,” she said.

  “But this stone’s dangerous,” I said. “A clumsy person could fall.”

  “Mo’s clumsy,” Dale added. “She nearly fell. Twice.”

  “I ain’t suing you because I haven’t thought of it yet,” I added.

  Mrs. Simpson scowled. Cul-de-sac people fear lawsuits like Miss Lana fears snakes. “This floor is history. Some families haven’t been here long enough to appreciate that,” she said as Grandmother Miss Lacy strolled in.

  “I’ll vouch for the Desperados, Betsy,” she said, “and pay for the repairs if they fail. Thank you so much for humoring me.”

  Pre-emptive gratitude. Brilliant, I thought as Mrs. Simpson hissed and clacked out.

  “I’d love to join you,” Grandmother Miss Lacy whispered, “but I have a meeting with Gabriel. Someone scattered pennies in the woods, and it’s driving Anna’s metal detector mad,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “And he says he has a new clue—one he says will let him search the inn grounds.” She headed for the door. “Take plenty of photos. Betsy Simpson is right: This floor is part of our history.”

  * * *

  An hour later, with the fill removed, Harm pried the stone up.

  Dale zipped his flashlight beam across its former resting place.

  “There!” I cried as something glinted. I spit on my finger and rubbed the glimmer. “It looks like copper,” I said. “It’s jagged and . . .” Harm slipped the pry bar beneath it and we lifted out a copper plate.

  “What’s a copper plate doing there?” I said.

  Dale raked the soil it had rested on. “A ring!” he whispered. He wiped it on the knee of his jeans and held it to the light—a heavy gold ring with a flat, engraved face.

  “A skeleton stabbing a bleeding heart! Blackbeard’s seal!”

  “Desperados!” a voice roared.

  We jumped and someone screamed. Possibly me. Gabriel Archer strolled toward us, cape flowing. I slid the copper plate under my shirt and Harm shoved the ring in his pocket, and we all stood to face him. His stare crawled over us like a searchlight.

  “Play defense,” Dale whispered. Brilliant.

  The Colonel says the best defense is a good offense.

  “Grandmother Miss Lacy’s waiting for you at her place. And you’re late. What have you got to say for yourself?”

  “Miss Thornton will keep,” he said like she was a piece of meat. “What’s that?” he demanded, staring at the gap in the floor.

  “Dirt,” Dale said. Dale has a way with the obvious.

  Harm stepped up beside me, the pry bar still in his hand. “Mo’s right. Miss Thornton’s waiting. And you don’t have permission to be here. This is a construction site.”

  “Standing up for your little girlfriend,” Gabriel said. “Cute, Crenshaw. But don’t push me unless you want your mom singing in cheap honky-tonks the rest of her unremarkable life.”

  “Don’t talk bad about Harm’s mother,” Dale said, and Gabriel turned to loom over him.

  A lifetime of standing up to his daddy paid off. Dale stared Gabriel down easy as a playground bully. “All life’s remarkable,” Dale said as Gabriel broke his stare. “It’s sad you can’t feel that, especially in a church.”

  Gabriel tossed Harm one last sneer. “Stay out of my way, Crenshaw.”

  “Here’s a better idea,” I said. “You stay out of ours.”

  The door slammed shut behind him, and I slipped the plate from beneath my shirt. “Good going, Desperado,” I told Dale. “Let’s fix this floor and get out of here.”

  Dale nodded. “He’ll come back, and when he does, we should be someplace different.”

  * * *

  Later, at my flat, Dale tugged our copper plate from my bag and wiped it clean. “I hoped for more treasures under that stone, but . . . hey!” he said. “It’s a Jolly Roger! I’d know him anywhere. Even with his crossbones nipped off on one side, he’s still smiling. There’s squiggles engraved on here too.”

  I stepped over yesterday’s jeans, which lay in a strategic holding pattern by my bed, dropped to my knees, and pulled our plaster map from beneath my bed. Dale turned the copper piece and fit it into the shark-bite-shaped space in the map’s corner. “Perfect,” he breathed.

  We carried it to my bathroom mirror and pushed aside my Elvis toothbrush holder. With the last piece of Mary’s puzzle in place, our map followed the river from below the fish camp—its X marking the spot where we nearly died—up, through Mr. Red’s land, to the inn. “The lines on Mary’s map fit Roger’s bones,” Harm said. “That makes this one giant treasure map.”

  “And here’s the letters stn, the numeral fifty, and P-L,” I said, squinting.

  “P-L. It’s Peg-Leg,” Dale said, his eyes shining.

  “Stn? That could mean stone,” I said. “But Tupelo Landing’s all dirt except on the cul-de-sac, where they import status boulders. I never spent much time past the springs, though.” I tilted my head. “Here’s another riddle,” I said. “Pace until dogwood bends thirsty knee, reverse three, dig deep . . . and riches find thee.”

  Harm picked up my phone. “I’m sick of riddles,” he said. “But this map should get us permission to search the inn grounds. We’re this close to treasure. We just got to get there before Gabriel does. Maybe luck will smile on us this time.”

  Luck not only smiled on us, she kissed us on both cheeks. First, we got the go-ahead to search the grounds around the inn in nothing flat. Second, Miss Retzyl called the café after supper: “The school heater’s out. No school tomorrow while Tinks works on it.”

  Yes! A day to search for treasure!

  * * *

  Early the next morning, we pedaled up the inn’s curving, cedar-lined drive and bounced across the neat grounds. We zipped past Lavender’s pickup to the old springhouse, which sat covered in vines.

  “Peg-Leg says fifty paces from a stone,” Harm said. Wind-twisted pines fringed the low, blue-and-orange clay cliff overlooking the river. “But you’re right, Mo. No boulder.”

  The trees rustled. “Hey, good-looking,” Kat said, stepping into the clearing. “Thought you kids might like an update from your favorite spy.”

  “You’re not our spy,” Harm said. “And you’re not supposed to be here.”

  “I thought you’d be glad to see me,” she said, and Harm blushed.

  She’s not a friend, I reminded myself. “Where are your partners in crime?” I asked.

  “Attila’s shopping in Raleigh with her charming mother,” she said. “The GPR blinked out and Gabriel says repairs will take forever.” She went full-blown mother. “Look, Harm. Gabriel says you were rude to him in the church and I’m embarrassed. I’d like to know why you did that.”

  “Harm wasn’t rude, I was,” Dale said, calm as glass.

  “And if Gabriel’s your friend, he sure doesn’t act like it,” I added.

  “Funny you’re poking around up here,” she said. “Gabriel thinks the treasure’s here too.” She kissed Harm’s face, and she was gone.

  “She drives me cr
azy, popping up all over my life,” Harm muttered.

  Sad, I thought. I’d give anything for Upstream Mother to pop up in mine.

  * * *

  An hour later Dale poked his head through a tangle of vines. Dale’s not allergic to poison ivy. Harm and me are. “Found the stone!” Dale called. “Iron ore, but wide and blobby. Red and brown with yellow spots . . . Like a giant sun-dried toad or a huge chunk of space vomit.”

  “You’re a poet,” Harm teased, pulling twine from his backpack. “I thought about this last night. We’ll use the stone for the center, and mark fifty paces out as far around as we can go. Our spot should be somewhere on that arc.”

  Dale stood on the stone holding the end of the string. Harm tossed me a roll of green tape and marched off, counting his steps. “. . . forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty,” he said, and broke the string. I marked it. He came back and took a different angle through the trees. I popped green tape on another tree, two trees, three. We soon had a nice arc to search—if you knew to look for the green tape among the pines.

  Smart. “You’re not just another pretty face,” I said.

  “Thanks, LoBeau,” he said, grinning. “Neither are you. We’re fifty paces from the stone in all directions, but now what?”

  Dale’s belly rumbled. “We could eat,” Dale said.

  “Lunch at my house and we can figure out what to do next,” Harm offered. “It’s closest and it’s my turn to treat.”

  * * *

  By the time we bounced into Mr. Red’s yard, my stomach was rumbling too. Harm laid his bike into a skid by his front steps.

  “Kat again,” he said, looking across the yard. “What’s she doing here?”

  Mr. Red and Kat stood toe to toe by the dog pen. Same thrown-back shoulders, same glare. “We’ll see about that,” she shouted, and jumped in Gabriel’s car.

  She slid to a halt beside us and rolled her window down. “Hey, baby, Trent and I are coming to your Valentine’s gig,” she said, breathing so hard, she pinched her nostrils thin.

  “You are? Why? Who’s Trent?”

  “My agent. I want him to hear you sing. I want you to move to Nashville, with me,” she said, making her eyes soft. “Please? You’ll love it.”

  “He can’t go,” I said. “He’s busy.”

  “We’ll work up a mother-son act,” she continued, watching Harm. “It’s a great plan. It helps Pops—he’s nearly broke. We can spend time together like I always wanted. We’ll be rich. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Sure you would. Otherwise, why search for a treasure?”

  “Harm can’t go,” Dale said. “He’s half of me and him, and a third of me and Mo and him. Fractions,” he added, like she’d miss that.

  Harm took a deep breath. “Thanks, Kat, but my life’s here. I’ll pass.”

  “I’m your mother,” she snapped, her voice losing its smile. “Your life is where I say it is.” She looked around the homestead, at the whitewash the three of us had slapped on the house. At the front steps Harm and Mr. Red built, at Grandmother Miss Lacy’s curtains hanging in the windows. “Believe me, this is exactly the kind of place you want to be from,” she said, and Harm looked like she’d kicked him.

  My temper jumped. “This ain’t Harm’s from, it’s his home. And it’s great.”

  “If you don’t like running water and a bank account,” she said, and spun out of the yard.

  * * *

  Harm slapped our sandwiches together like he could barely see the bread and spooned up the pudding like he didn’t know the bowls. Outside, Mr. Red shoveled a trench by the dog pens. He moved like a machine, working Kat out of his system.

  I went to the door. “Mr. Red! Lunch!”

  He let the door slam behind him. “Smells good.”

  “It’s just balogna, Gramps.”

  We slipped into our seats. Mr. Red bowed his head. “Bless these sandwiches and the boy that made them. Keep us close. Amen.” He opened his sandwich and peppered it hard. He slid the pepper to Harm, who did the exact same thing, the exact same way.

  Kat sat between them clear as if she’d walked through the door.

  Mr. Red closed his sandwich. “I like having you here, Harm,” he said. “You deserve good as you give, and you give a lot—to everybody at this table. Lacy loves you too. What little I have is yours if you want it. I hope you’ll stay.” He switched courses like a PBS gazelle with a cheetah on its heels. “I’ve almost got that last leaky pipe dug out and I could use some help. It’s going to freeze hard tonight, and if that pipe freezes and busts we’ll be in a mess.”

  “Right,” Harm said. “Only we’re close to the treasure. Once I find it, we can hire the best plumber in the state.”

  “If you find it,” Mr. Red said. “I need help now.”

  I reached for the pepper, and time to think. “Lavender’s covering the inn’s desk for Miss Lana today—we saw his truck. He can make sure Kat doesn’t go back up to our search site. Gabriel’s repairing his GPR, and Attila’s in Raleigh.”

  “Plus we don’t know what to do next,” Dale said, diving into his pudding. “We need some ideas, and ideas are like chickens. Hard to chase down. But if you leave the henhouse door open, they naturally come home.”

  Dale looked at me, his eyes questioning. I gave him a thumbs-up.

  “We can help, Mr. Red,” Dale said, and the worry left Harm’s face. He always seems surprised when we help—even though we help him every time.

  * * *

  By midafternoon, we’d dug out the old pipe and replaced the leaky section. My ideas had flown the coop. Harm’s had too. “You’re trying too hard,” Dale said.

  Harm glanced at the dowsing rod at Mr. Red’s feet. “I can’t believe you found all those leaks with a stick. I mean, it’s crazy, but it’s kind of brilliant too.”

  “Crazy ain’t crazy if it works,” Dale said. “People been dowsing forever. Willow and dogwood work good, but some people like sycamore. Daddy uses wire.”

  “It’s not so much the kind of wood as the person using it,” Mr. Red said, checking the pipe. “I have a feel for water. My mother did too.”

  “Think I can do it?” Harm asked.

  A quick lesson later, he crossed the yard, holding the forked branch in front of him. “Keep it strong,” Mr. Red coached. “Wrists up. Water strikes like a fish. You’ll feel it.”

  “All I feel is stupid,” Harm muttered. “Somebody else try.”

  I hopped up. “I will.” The wood felt alive in my hands. I glided. It bobbed, like a nibble on a fishing line. Another step. It dipped, and pulled straight down over the pipe.

  “See?” Mr. Red said. “Some people just got a feel for water.”

  * * *

  Dear Upstream Mother,

  Do you have a feel for water? I do.

  Thanks to Blackbeard’s ex, we’ve found the treasure site up near the springhouse. We just got to figure out where to dig. Also we found the ring Blackbeard used to seal his terrifying notes. It’s in a box under my bed.

  As far as our search for you, stay brave. We’re zeroing in. 22 no’s on Always Man, but our yes is out there.

  Yours in courage,

  Mo

  PS: Thes says we’ll be ten degrees tomorrow morning. That never happened in Tupelo Landing. I can’t wait to feel it.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Murder

  Thes nailed the forecast. Friday morning woke up crystal cold and sparkling. The river went pale with ice, and the café regulars steamed in bundled to their eyebrows.

  Lavender came in sporting denim, a dark green scarf, and a shake-me-down shiver.

  Gabriel, on the other hand, swirled in like cold couldn’t touch him. “Cheese biscuit, to go,” he said. “I hear you’re searching by the inn, Mo. Waste of time.”

  Kat is a spy, I thought. His.

  Miss Lana
shoved a two-dollar biscuit in a takeout bag and slid it to me. “Four dollars,” I said. I rang it up and stuck two dollars in my tip jar as Gabriel drove away.

  Lavender grabbed his own takeout. “Bacon and egg sandwich,” I said, ringing him up. “Would you like a side of Marry Me with that?”

  He handed me a five and a smile. “Marry you? You’re a baby. Want a ride to school, Mo? It’s too cold for bikes this morning. I’m picking Dale up too.”

  Lavender never has to ask me twice.

  We rumbled out of the parking lot, my bike in back. “How’s life?” he said.

  Rhetorical, I thought, but my mouth was already in gear. “Kat wants to take Harm away and I don’t want him to go.”

  He frowned. Even frowning, he’s fall-apart gorgeous. “Why? What’s in it for her?”

  That’s Kat in five words, I thought. What’s in it for her?

  “She wants a mother-son act. She’s bringing her agent to hear Harm sing Valentine’s Day,” I added as the pines blinked past. “What can we do? I can’t imagine Tupelo Landing without Harm in it, and I got a world-class imagination.”

  “You do,” Lavender said. He smiled, but his eyes had gone tired. “Kat’s going to do what she’s going to do, and we may not be able to stop her. All we can do for sure is tell Harm how we feel, and be a friend.”

  That’s it? That’s all he’s got for me?

  He turned on his blinker and muscled the truck into Miss Rose’s drive. We bounced across the yard, scattering chickens, as Dale ran to us and slung his bike in the back of the truck.

  “Move over, Mo,” Dale said, diving in beside me. He looked at his brother. “Can you help me find a movie for me and Sal? Nothing too baby but nothing scary or—you know,” he said, and pulled out a calendar.

  Dale? With a calendar? The earth wobbled.